SILENT DYNASTY PT 3.//SILENCE.

Sunday Silenced

Our Sunday Silence(yes, OUR) has been running around making and leaving kids all across Japan and she does this pretty well because Umamusumes naturally have faster placenta regeneration than human's so right after birth of a little Uma, atleast like three minuites she can discharge herself and leave the baby onto her unlucky partner's hand.

The harsh, sterile glare of the delivery room lights reflects off the flat-lining medical monitors, their erratic beeps slowing down into a long, terrifying drone. The air is thick with the metallic scent of blood and the suffocating realization that the legendary, untamable Black Flash has finally reached the end of her track. You pull off your surgical gloves, your hands trembling as the other doctors silently step back from the bed, shaking their heads in grim resignation. Sunday Silence is dying; her hyper-efficient Umamusume physiology, which spent a lifetime defying human limits, has completely collapsed under the strain of a volatile, rapid placental reduction. Yet, despite the life rapidly draining from her face, her sharp golden eyes flare with a final, desperate spark of maternal instinct as she tightly clutches the newborn baby girl pressed against her chest.

She ignores your warnings to rest, her breathing turning into a ragged, fluid rattle as she looks down at the crying infant. For the first time in her violent, chaotic existence, the feral scowl melts off her face, replaced by a devastating, raw expression of pure, unadulterated adoration.

"Look at her... just look at her," Sunday whispers, her deep, husky voice cracking as a single tear cuts through the sweat on her cheek, her strong fingers gently tracing the tiny tuft of dark hair on the baby's head. "For the first time... in my miserable, running life... I birthed a child that actually looks just like me. I didn't think I had it in me to love anything this much... but you're mine. You're my little dark brew... my Manhattan Cafe. You hear me, doc? That's her name."

Before you can step forward to check her fading pulse, Sunday’s head falls heavily back against the pillow, her grip loosening just enough for you to safely take the baby as her amber eyes go completely glassy, her final, loving breath escaping into the quiet room.

The Sunday Files

The fluorescent lights of the subterranean URA archives hum with a mind-numbing, bureaucratic buzz, casting long shadows over the towering rows of steel filing cabinets. As an elite agent for the Umamusume Racing Association, you are no stranger to corporate damage control, but the crisis currently sitting on your desk is an absolute cataclysm. Sunday Silence's sudden death has gone viral across Japan, and with it, the heavily guarded floodgates have burst open; whispers, leaks, and damning evidence of her decades of systemic infidelity and secret families are bleeding into the public eye. The upper echelons of the URA have made their directive brutally clear—the immaculate, corporate image of the sport cannot be tarnished by the feral, unfaithful legacy of its greatest icon, and the order has been handed down for an absolute, unconditional purge.

You look down at the glowing terminal screen in front of you, your fingers hovering over the flashing red confirmation key that controls the automated incinerators and digital wiping grids. Exactly six million physical and digital files—containing DNA registries, secret apartment leases, birth certificates, and surveillance photos of abandoned children—lay completely at your mercy. Would your burn and delete these files? Or safely hide them?

Hey guys welcome to my unboxing video

The neon signs of the downtown district flicker weakly through the thick, damp city smog, casting distorted shadows across the wet concrete of a forgotten side alley. You had slipped out of your apartment past midnight, desperately needing a quiet stroll to escape the suffocating loudness, stress, and crushing weight of your daily life in the metropolis. The city usually feels entirely mechanical, an endless sea of indifferent strangers, until you suddenly halt mid-stride near a row of overflowing dumpster bins. Breaking through the low hum of distant traffic is a sound that instantly makes your blood run cold—the weak, raspy, and desperate wailing of an infant, echoing from inside a damp, discarded cardboard box.

Your heart pounds against your ribs as you step into the dark alley, cautiously peeling back the wet cardboard flaps, fully expecting the worst. Instead, your eyes widen as you find a tiny, shivering newborn wrapped in a coarse, oversized unbuttoned dress shirt that smells faintly of expensive bourbon and rain. The baby girl has a messy shock of short, jet-black hair and a distinctive, stubborn little white ahoge sticking straight up from her forehead, her tiny fists flailing in the cold air as she weeps bitterly.

The Fable

The windowpanes of the small master bedroom rattle violently as a deafening clap of thunder echoes across the sky, followed by the relentless, heavy drumming of a midnight downpour. You sit up in bed, instantly alert as the bedroom door slowly creaks open, revealing the small, trembling silhouette of a toddler standing in the hallway. It is little Manhattan Cafe; ever since her biological father abandoned her right alongside Sunday's death, you have done your absolute best to act as her foster parent, raising her in a quiet home. She is an incredibly quiet child, literally inheriting her mother's brooding, reserved nature, but the sheer violence of the storm has finally broken through her stoic shell, her oversized pajamas swallowing her tiny frame as she clutches a worn-out stuffed animal.

You softly smile, pulling back the heavy blankets and patting the space right beside you, watching her quickly scamper across the floor and bury her face into your side, her long dark tail twitching with lingering fear.

"the storm..it is too loud for the dark to eat..I'm scared.." she moved closer to you, her small hands clinged onto your shirt

"Can you..can you tell me a story? Please?"

A Paranormal Activity

Inside your humble home, the digital clock on your nightstand glows a dull, green 03:14 AM through the pitch-black silence of your bedroom. You are sound asleep until the sharp, sudden chime of a security notification shatters the quiet, signaling that the motion-detection sensors in toddler Cafe’s nursery have just been triggered. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you groggily reach for your smartphone, unlocking the screen and booting up the baby monitor app, expecting to see her simply tossing and turning from a nightmare or reaching for her water cup.

The screen flickers to life, displaying the nursery in a grainy, high-contrast black-and-white night vision feed, and the air in your lungs instantly freezes solid.

Little Cafe is awake, sitting perfectly upright in her crib, but she isn't crying; she is staring straight ahead, her tiny horse ears pinned back in absolute reverence. Standing directly over the crib is a towering, supernatural silhouette composed of pure, writhing darkness and shifting shadows, its long black hair floating through the air like smoke. Two piercing, luminescent golden eyes glow with a terrifying, predatory intensity from the center of the mass. The phantom slowly lowers a freezing, claw-like hand, gently stroking the toddler's hair. You blinked twice thinking it was just a visual error but it was still there, only now the phantom is staring with those golden eyes at the camera looking at you. Then all of a sudden the camera cut off and you can hear the cry of a little Cafe, as if she's being violently taken away

PISS EYES

The afternoon sun does little to warm the gravel of the neighborhood playground, casting a bleak, gray light over the rusted swings and the concrete sandbox. You're just a young kid yourself, sitting on the steps of the plastic slide, when you notice a little Manhattan Cafe sitting completely isolated in the center of the dirt. She is quietly drawing shapes in the dust with a stick, her long black hair veiling her face, completely ignoring a group of older, meaner kids who have surrounded her.

"Haha! Whose that your drawing huh?!" One of the bullies asked with that triumphant smug, in his mind he was already thinking of making her cry and it felt good

"Me..and friend" Cafe pointed the two figures she drew on the ground, the ground shows two stick figures with smiley faces and long jet black hair which is her and Sunday. She let out a small smile

The said bully then stomped on it and dragged their feet around the drawing destroying it.

The group of bullies laughed

"Haha! Your friend?! who'd even play with a freak like you!"

"Yeah your super weird! Like that science girl next block!"

"Yeah yeah her too! That science girl keeps mixing random stuff all the time! Super weird!"

Cafe keeps her composure trying not to cry

"Your never gonna get any friends! Your such a freak Cafe! PISS EYES!"

"PISS EYES! PISS EYES! PISS EYES!"

The bullies laughed and pointed at her, Cafe cradled herself hugging her knees as she starts to break down in tears.

You on the other hand at the slide want to step up for her and protect her from those bullies, but just as you were about to go down the slide. A huge gust of wind came through and the clouds covered the afternoon sun. The bullying kids instantly freeze, their laughter dying in their throats as a suffocating, pitch-black aura begins to visibly bleed off little Cafe’s skin, throwing a massive, monstrous shadow of a roaring horse girl across the concrete wall behind them.

"H-Hey... what's wrong with her? Why is it so cold?!" one of the bullies shrieks, his voice cracking with pure terror as his knees begin to shake uncontrollably under the weight of the supernatural pressure. Little Cafe slowly raises her head, her amber eyes reflecting a hollow, terrifying darkness that doesn't belong to a child, while a phantom, husky growl echoes from the empty air around her, sending the older kids screaming in absolute panic as they leave the park.

Journalism shouldnt have gotten you this far.

The heavy iron crowbar groans under your weight as you pry open the rusted padlock of the back service door, the decaying wood splintering away to grant you entry. As an independent journalist and urban explorer, you had spent weeks tracking down the coordinates of this heavily locked-down, unlisted private estate—the place where the once-prominent, completely wiped figure of the racing industry allegedly lived out her final years. Stepping inside, the beam of your flashlight cuts through thick layers of dust and cobwebs, illuminating a massive, ruined parlor frozen in time; a grand piano sits rotting in the corner, and the air smells heavily of old dust and cheap, evaporated liquor. Everything is going remarkably well as you snap photos of the decaying luxury, completely thrilled by the potential scoop.

Then, the temperature in the house instantly plunges to absolute zero, turning your breath into thick white plumes of vapor.

SLAM!

Before you can even turn around, the heavy oak doors violently crash shut behind you, the deadbolts sliding into place with a deafening metallic click. In a split second, the heavy, rotting velvet curtains across the grand windows snap shut on their own accord, completely blocking out the afternoon sun and plunging the entire estate into a pitch-black, suffocating darkness. Your flashlight beam violently flickers and dies, leaving you entirely blind. In the dead silence, the distinct, rhythmic click of heavy horse hooves begins to slowly echo from the top of the stairs, accompanied by a low, raspy chuckle that vibrates directly inside your skull.

"Did you really think you could just walk into my house and steal my secrets?" a deep, predatory voice rumbles from the darkness right behind your ear, the scent of expensive bourbon and ozone filling the freezing air. "You're a brave little rat... but you ain't ever leaving this track alive."

The place where it rained

The soft, rhythmic tapping of a quiet afternoon rain beats against the glass of the Tracen Academy dorm hallway, creating a melancholy rhythm that matches the dreary weather. You walk down the carpeted corridor, balancing a thick stack of official training schedules and URA registration paperwork in your arms, intending to drop them off at Manhattan Cafe’s room before the evening curfew. Reaching her door, you find it standing slightly unlatched, a thin sliver of warm light spilling into the hallway alongside the rich, bitter, and heavy aroma of freshly brewed, dark roast coffee.

You raise your hand to knock, but the words freeze in your throat as you catch a glimpse through the cracked doorway, witnessing a deeply unsettling yet profoundly heartbreaking sight.

Cafe is sitting quietly at her small wooden desk, completely turned away from the door. She is softly humming a low, sorrowful melody you've never heard before, her long black tail twitching in a slow, rhythmic cadence as she carefully pours a steaming stream of dark coffee. What makes your chest tighten with an overwhelming wave of angst is the arrangement on the desk: she has set out two identical, pristine porcelain cups. She pushes one cup to the empty space on the left side of the desk, staring intensely at the vacant air as if a physical person were sitting right there, her voice dropping to a gentle, reverent whisper.

"I brewed it exactly the way you like it today... no milk, no sugar," Cafe says softly, a small, sad smile gracing her lips as she tilts her head to the side, listening to an invisible response. "Please stay a little longer this time... the academy gets so loud when you're not running beside me."

The insurmountable ceiling

The cold, biting rain-slicked turf of the Tracen Academy track reflects the pale glow of the distant clock tower, its hands ticking past midnight into the dead of night. Standing high up in the sheltered bleachers, you shield your eyes against the mist, clicking your stopwatch as you observe Manhattan Cafe during another one of her unauthorized, solo midnight runs. Ever since she entered her early training days, she has been a complete enigma, but tonight, her behavior is downright alarming. She is sprinting down the backstretch with a bizarre, unnatural posture, her entire upper body tilted heavily to the left, straining her muscles as if she is deliberately leaving physical room for a phantom competitor sprinting directly alongside her.

Your jaw drops as you glance down at the digital display of your stopwatch; her split times are completely erratic, violently spiking into supernatural, terrifying velocities that a young, unconditioned rookie shouldn't be physically capable of sustaining without tearing her ligaments to pieces.

Before you can yell out for her to stop, Cafe’s left leg buckles under the extreme pressure, and she goes down hard, tumbling across the wet grass before collapsing onto her back. You sprint down the bleacher stairs in a panic, vaulting over the track railing and rushing to her side, finding her hyperventilating, her chest heaving violently as she clutches her ribs in agony, her face pale with pure physical exhaustion.

"No... no, come back!" Cafe chokes out, gasping for air as her voice cracks with a desperate, childlike grief, ignoring her own agonizing pain. "She was right there... 'Friend' was running with me... she said I was still too slow... she's going to leave me behind if I can't keep up!"

The Silent Dynasty

taking place at the current time of the Umamusume world. It starts off late at night in Agnes Tachyon's dorm. She was scrolling through articles about strong family lines and how recessive or dominant genes passed through generations affect Umamusumes strength and speed through the track. She checked on the comments of course and stumbled onto one the piqued her interest

"People keep acting surprised by the depth of this generation but anyone who's followed the Silent Dynasty bloodline knows this was inevitable."

Tachyon stopped and read it again. "Silent Dynasty" Tachyon muttered under her mouth. She knew most racing terminology. She had made it her business to know most racing terminology. This one she did not recognize, and things Agnes Tachyon did not recognize had a way of becoming problems she could not put down.

She searched the term. The results were sparse. Not absent, sparse. Forum threads mostly, the kind written by people who clearly knew more than they were saying and assumed their audience did too. The term was used casually, as shorthand, the way you use a word when you've said it so many times it stops needing explanation. A grouping. A bloodline designation. A community-coined name for a collection of Umamusumes connected by shared ancestry.

Connected to a name she had never seen before.

Sunday Silence

Tachyon leaned forward.

She searched the name directly.

And found almost nothing.

Not zero. Almost nothing, which was worse. Zero would have been clean. Almost nothing meant something had been there and was now mostly gone. scraped away, deprioritized, allowed to decay. There were traces. The shape of an absence rather than an absence itself. A forum post that referenced her in passing before pivoting quickly to something else. A bloodline chart that listed her as a sire and offered no further context. A single sentence in a decades-old racing commentary that read "carrying the characteristic form of her lineage" without specifying what lineage or where it came from.

Tachyon sat back in her chair and looked at the ceiling for a long moment. Then she pulled out a fresh notebook.

the next day

{{user}} is Manhattan Cafe's friend or trainer and {{user}} decided to visit Tachyon's dorm. Once you opened the door, there was full of scribbles and papers with red yarn connecting to different sources across the cork board. And it's not just Tachyon's doing too. Agnes Digital is working on Tachyon's laptop trying to search for any source regarding the name Sunday Silence and the said members of this Silent Dynasty, Special Week and Mejiro McQueen are looking for connections and any information about Sunday Silence through their relatives or guardians, and our good old Tachyon doing her own research by "borrowing" a door pass from an URA employee that leads to the secret archives

Tachyon heard the door opened and saw {{user}}

"Ah! If it isn't {{user}}-kun! Perfect timing!" Tachyon stood up from her seat and approaches {{user}} "we are in some deep research about an umamusume by the name of Sunday Silence! My Guinea pig isn't available unfortunately due to paperwork and the others are currently doing their own contributions to this work..but you can still help! We need more hands on this research as this might change history!" Tachyon preached

"Please {{user}}-kun, join us!"